


These Hands that Shape and Hold the World

by Elpie (Horribibble)



Series: Can I Tattoo a Baby? [1]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alive Hale Family, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Awkward Romance, Banshee Baby, Canonical Character Death, Humor, Kid Fic, M/M, Magical Stiles Stilinski, Magical Tattoos, Mild Hurt/Comfort, Pixies are Assholes, Single Parent Stiles Stilinski, Tattoo Artist Stiles Stilinski, Tattoos, Tooth Fairies, Unicorns, Young Peter Hale
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-22
Updated: 2014-12-22
Packaged: 2018-03-02 19:27:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,148
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2823365
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Horribibble/pseuds/Elpie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Before he inked his first tattoo, Stiles Stilinski had filled a dozen sketchbooks.<br/>Before he knew what he wanted to do with his life, Stiles Stilinski had a kid to take care of.<br/>Before he threw in the towel completely, Stiles Stilinski met Peter Hale. </p><p>Life is made up almost exclusively of happy accidents. (And some really terrifying childhood memories.) But that's okay. </p><p>(Really they're all kind of morons, but the Buffy style asskicking doesn't hurt.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	These Hands that Shape and Hold the World

**Author's Note:**

  * For [BayLester](https://archiveofourown.org/users/BayLester/gifts).



> Baylester asked for some happy kid fic, and I hope this satisfies your need for fluff, bae!
> 
> I'm so happy to have participated in my first fandom event with all of my favorite people. Stay positive, y'all!
> 
> (Also a big thanks to Malapropian, who kicked my butt through the entire thing to make sure it got done.)
> 
> Edit: 
> 
> Special thanks to Merellia for sharing the correct translation for Lydia's tattoo. Bless your face. <3

Stiles has never been a fan of needles, or of the blood they tended to draw. Once, when he was five, his mother had been hemming a pair of his jeans when she pricked herself. It wasn’t even a deep wound, but there had been a tiny welling of blood, and five-year-old Stiles had passed out _cold_. His mother thought it was hilarious once she was done being completely terrified.

She called him her ‘sensitive boy,’ and set him up with a sketchbook and all the drawing supplies his pre-adolescent brain could handle. She taught him how to sketch, ink, and color. She told him that there was no such thing as a mistake, only a springboard to newer and better ideas. And his imagination took off from there.

He drew everything from dragons to Mrs. O’Leary’s lazy maine coon to his battered hightops. He drew trees, clouds, and metaphysical representations of the seasons as understood by a kid who still lisped a little on complicated words. And then he found out about _tattoos_.

People could color on themselves and then keep it _forever_. He could _be_ a _coloring book_ when he grew up. His father was against the idea, despite the time-worn design on his own arm, a testament to his old unit. He said, “Don’t even think about it, little man. That’s permanent.”

And Stiles pouted his cute little lip and said, “Duh.”

Claudia shook her head. “Don’t worry about it, John. Needles, remember?”

“I can take it.” Stiles said, but it was years before an ink-bearing needle came near his own skin. It would be a small trial to bear to have his mother’s stars wink back up at him.

-

It isn’t difficult to figure out precisely when Claudia Stilinski fell ill, leafing through eight-year-old Stiles’ sketchbook. The beautiful, detailed representations of a mother slowly blur and fade. Dark circles form under her eyes, and a sick, angry light fills them up.

Her hands go from delicate and strong to desperate and grasping, objects of fear that still hold onto a smaller, weaker set of fingers. Stiles wouldn’t give her up for anything, even when she was too hurt to be herself. Instead, he drew intricate patterns on her pale skin, interlocking with lines and symbols on his own.

(He would sit at the bedside with washable markers and draw and draw, and even when she couldn’t remember anything, she still marveled at his handiwork. She would sigh and smile, and Stiles imagined that maybe she felt just a little less pain.)

Next comes her death. The page covered entirely in near-black graphite where her son pressed down and _down and **down**_ , but it didn’t change a thing. Demons and death take over countless pages, representations of sickness and death that are beyond unnerving.

And then, suddenly, they stop short in favor of his father’s hands, his sad smile, a frustrated hand running through his hair, and a glimmering glass of whiskey. There is no guilt or accusation. Only sketch after sketch of a man trying so hard not to fall apart while putting his family back together.

It is easy to see how quickly Stiles grew up.

-

After that, nothing is really scary, anymore. Not even needles. He’d run his finger over the tape countless times, shivering at the suggestion of needles keeping his mother hydrated and sedated. So it’s really not so surprising when a thirteen-year-old Stiles rigs his first stick and poke needle and starts practicing on the soft undersides of his feet.

When Scott finds out, he insists that Stiles ‘do him, too,’ and Stiles obliges, grinning like an idiot. “So what do you want, man?”

And his dopey, asthmatic best friend says, “I don’t know, man. Just not a dick, okay?”

“Like I’d do that to you.” Stiles snorts, and Scott looks back at him accusingly. “Okay, I _thought_ about it, but I wouldn’t _do_ it.”

“Yeah, sure. What about, like, a slice of pizza?”

“Nah,” Stiles says, already prepping the needle. “I’ve got it.”

An hour later, Scott whines impatiently as Stiles puts the finishing touches on the caduceus. “Done!” He beams, and Scott rushes for the nearest mirror to inspect his shoulder blade. Neither notices the faint glow of the caduceus, or how much easier it becomes for Scott to breathe.

-

Melissa has a fit, as most parents would. She even makes noise about getting it removed, but she’s no less touched by the choice of design. Stiles can tell by the way she smiles and shakes her head when Scott isn’t looking, and the way she ruffles his hair when he leaves.

So he keeps at it, compiling design after design in his sketchbook and making plans. He does research online and ends up rigging his very own tattoo gun. By the time he’s fifteen, he has quite a little amateur business going, designing and inking tattoos for older kids who keep it all quiet in exchange for his artwork, inviting him to their parties for a little extra entertainment.

It takes a while before one of the girls he worked on remarks at his own lack of ink. He rolls up the sleeve of his flannel overshirt and shows her the inside of his right forearm, a constellation of falling stars surrounding the words, “I have loved the stars too fondly to ever be fearful of the night.”

She sighs, breath thick with sweet liqueur. “That’s really beautiful, Steve.”

“Stiles.” He rolls his eyes. “And she was.”

-

Lydia Martin notices him at one of those parties. Petite and perfect and so painfully bored by everyone around her, she approaches him. “You’re the sheriff’s kid.” She says.

“I’m Stiles. We’ve had classes together since the third grade.”

“I remember.” She snaps. “That still doesn’t explain what you’re doing here.”

“I’m making money. What are you doing here?”

“Having fun.”

He looks her up and down, taking in the whole picture: the styled red hair, fashionable dress, and the cool, tired look in her eyes. Her toes curl against the soft pile of the carpet, and Stiles says, “No, you’re not.”

Her lips curl up deviously at the corners, and Stiles falls a little bit in love. She crooks one finger, topped by a viciously pointed pink nail, and leads him upstairs.

“Don’t you have guests to entertain?” He mumbles.

“It’s my sister’s party, and she can keep her mouth shut. I can fuck whoever I want.”

How could he argue with that?

-

Lydia is his first time, and in some ways, his hope. He sees a brilliance in her that makes him want to do more with his time than tattoo drunk kids at house parties. It makes him feel ashamed. For years, he’d idolized her without quite realizing just how brilliant she really was. When he looks at her now, he can see a glow that will never be contained.

Still, after yet another night of fooling around under Jackson’s nose and talking until obscene hours about the most obscure philosophy ever dug up by dangerously inquisitive teenage minds, she lies next to him, naked and perfect. He runs a thumb against her milky white thigh and studies the violent blaze of her hair against the sheets.

Seconds pass, minutes. He sits up and stares at the wall. She watches him for a while, waiting, until eventually he turns to her and says, “I want to tattoo you.”

There’s a light in her eyes, an understanding, and her smile is slow and cunning. She’s figured him out, which is strange, because he still doesn’t understand himself at all. She nods shortly. “Make it something good,” She says, and bares her thigh.

The tattoo is in Latin. He doesn’t tell her what it means, and she doesn’t ask.

But it’s there, vivid and dark and irrefutable.

 

_**Mundum mutabo.** _

 

-

They’re not a couple.

Sometimes Stiles doesn’t even know if they’re _friends_.

Lydia has her group of genetically blessed individuals, and Stiles has his Scott. They don’t sit together at lunch or partner up in lab. The idea of them being seen together is still vaguely laughable. But now and then, she sees him outside when his head is filled with ideas and he can’t help but isolate himself and spill all over the pages, and she’ll crouch down to see what he’s drawing.

Lydia asks how he’s doing and wants to hear what he has to say. She brushes her fingers against his temple and says, “You’re thinking too much.”

He grins, because that’s probably ironic.

And then one day, she sits next to him in the grass and smooths out her pretty floral skirt. She takes a deep breath and says, “I’m pregnant.”

“Oh.”

-

It’s not like Stiles has future plans. He has no idea what he wants to do with his life.

He just keeps going to trashy high school and college parties, keeps doing tattoos for people who don’t know what they want. But he always seems to, always knows what they need. It sounds strange and he doesn’t share, but he can _see_ and _feel_ the design before he even begins to set it into the skin.

The needle breaks flesh, and his hand moves from there, forming designs and strings of words. Ink and blood, in and out, he enters a trance and there it is. Like magic.

But can all that instinct and all those wadded up bills support a _baby_?

A part of him wonders absently if he can tattoo a baby, and then another part answers, _Something is fucking wrong with you_.

Lydia maintains eye contact until he bobs his head up and down. “Okay. Yeah. I’ll...I’ll figure something out.”

And that old light in her eyes is back again. “I know you will.”

-

After graduation, Stiles nearly hyperventilates in the delivery room with Lydia while Jackson seethes in the waiting room. She grins up at him with a fierce grin, teeth set in pain, and he lets her squeeze the hell out of his hand. Her eyes lock on the stupid little designs he drew on her hand, and then the tattoo he inked on her inner thigh.

 

_Mundum mutabo._

_I will change the world._

 

The baby lets out a powerful cry under the doctor’s hand, and it’s as if a chill wind rushes through them both, a sense of eerie power. They look at each other as the nurse says, “Congratulations, it’s a girl!”

Lydia watches intently as Stiles takes the baby and sits at her side, showing the newborn to her weary mother. She sighs, “That’s Cassiopeia.”

And Stiles doesn't even question it. He says, "Hey, Cassie," and she gurgles irately before he hands her over. She looks just as much like Winston Churchill as every other newborn baby, but he thinks she’s the most beautiful girl he’s ever seen.

-

Stiles is terrified, just like most new parents are terrified.

His father is slightly less so, confident when he lends a hand and tolerant when Stiles thinks he might lose his mind completely. Every now and then when the Sheriff has a shift and Stiles has to pick up hours at one of his many jobs, one of the deputies will swing by to give them a hand. Jordan Parrish is a saint from a long line of squalling seek and destroy machines (his words), so Cassie is never a problem. She seems, if anything, selective with her cries.

They manage to work out a system, and Stiles _excels_ at maintaining a system. By the fifth month, he stops freaking out about how he’s going to manage being responsible for two human lives and actually begins to enjoy his bouncing baby girl. And she does, in fact, bounce. It’s a thing. They have it on video.

Occasionally, he has to tote her along to work, and she’s learned to travel well. Though she does tend to insist on being picked up by anyone foolish enough to get caught cooing at her. She’s especially popular at Talia Hale’s book store and coffee shop, “Hale of a Read.”

Cora, Talia’s youngest daughter, works the machines while Stiles picks up shifts stocking books and helping people make their selections. She spends most of her time sneaking Cassie little milk-and-sugar drinks that _should_ make her completely intolerable, but Stiles feels like Cassie knows her game. She figures out how to blow bubbles quickly. Unfortunately, some of them come out of her nose.

The only thing that seems to horrify Cora more is the array of bastardized caffeine mixtures Stiles sucks down before darting to his next job. Talia tells her not to say anything, just smiles and pats Stiles’ hair as he waves goodbye, grabs his kid, and heads to the library or the police station for extra archive work.

For all intents and purposes, Stiles is the town’s bitch.

Until Deaton comes to town.

-

Stiles leaves the back room, trying to snort a bit of old dust from his nose just in time to spot Talia perched by the register, leafing through one of his sketchbooks. For a moment, he feels incredibly nervous, but her hands are careful and her attention clearly captivated.

He wants to say that the sketches are private, but he shows enough of them to drunken college coeds each weekend to render the point moot. He’d rather Talia look through them than another Todd or Kandice with a ‘K’.

So he waits.

She looks up at him with an easy smile after a few more moments of study. “Stiles, I think there’s someone you ought to meet. My friend Alan Deaton’s just come back to town.”

"Uh...I hate to be the dumb one here but...so? I _really_ do not have time to date right now."

Talia laughs. “He’s opening a tattoo shop, Stiles. I’ve spoken to him about your work, and he’s interested in seeing it for himself. He’s open to taking on an apprentice.” She offers his sketchbook to him, and he grabs it perhaps a bit too quickly.

“But I’m not--”

“Yes, you are. Your work is amazing, Stiles, and the money is good. Why not settle into something you love instead of four jobs that leave you miserable and exhausted?”

“They don’t _all_ make me miserable.”

“Can Cora drink a glass of water while you say that?”

Stiles laughs.

Cora flings a mini marshmallow at his head.

-

Emissary Ink is a free-standing brick building, surprisingly welcoming with a well-tended stoop complete with wooden railings and lanterns. The door is painted purple, and the inside smells of brown sugar and fig. The shop is decorated with various curiosities, but it manages not to be cluttered or trashy. The accents are done in wood and there’s a hallway to the right of the counter that leads into rooms built for customer privacy.

When the door over the bell rings, a dark-skinned man with a pleasantly rounded face comes out to meet him. “You must be Stiles.”

Stiles shuffles in place. “Looks that way.”

“I’m Alan Deaton. Talia’s told me a lot about your work.”

“It’s not much, really. Just a bunch of sketches and--don’t kill me--some stick and poke.”

Deaton laughs. “I won’t hold it against you. We all make our mistakes.” He rolls up a shirt sleeve so Stiles can see an old stick and poke of a pizza slice tucked in among some seriously hypnotic designs. He rolls the sleeve back down and motions for Stiles to hand over his sketchbook. Stiles pulls it from his bag obediently.

Stiles squirms in his skin as Deaton goes through the book with careful attention, humming and nodding occasionally. Finally he closes it and levels Stiles with a serious look. “First of all, these are not just a bunch of sketches. This is an impressive body of work, especially from such a young artist with no formal training. And your spark is undeniable. I look forward to working with you, if you’re interested in the position.”

Stiles feels as if he’s missing something, but he’s not about to pass up a job opportunity like this. “Really? I mean yeah. When can I start?”

“We’ll work out hours in a bit. First,” Deaton pauses to open his sketchbook to a page covered with odd spirals and symbols he just couldn’t get out of his head. He points to one, tapping his finger twice against the page. “I want to see you draw this again, but incorporating this one over here,” He indicates another design, “into the curve.”

“I can do that.” Stiles says.

“I know you can.”

-

Deaton is a little weird, and sometimes seriously cryptic when it comes to handing out instructions, but he’s still the most interesting boss Stiles has ever had. (Sorry, Dad.) The man starts him off with what _seems_ like normal work, practicing his lines and cleaning up the shop. He works on some flash art when Deaton gives him the okay, which is much more often than he expected.

Deaton allows him a startling amount of freedom, often encouraging him to do ‘what feels natural’ and ‘be careful with his blending, it must never come undone’. He provides Stiles with unusual ingredients and shows him how to mix them into the most vivid, astounding colors.

Stiles finds himself strangely drawn to the pretty purple flowers that seem to sting him even through his gloves. He’s a little frightened of them for reasons he can’t place, and it feels good to burn them after, to see the smoke rising from his mortar and pestle. He worries now and then that he might be a junior pyromaniac, but he shakes it off.

Deaton doesn’t stop him from going to the occasional college party on weekends when he feels like he needs to go. He even volunteers to babysit Cassie, and though Stiles is hesitant at first, the man is a whiz at getting Cassie to open up and behave.

He doesn’t fall for her breath-holding trick for a single minute, and it’s not long before he’s ‘Uncle Dedun’. (T’s still elude her tiny, chubby grasp.) Stiles trusts the man completely, and he’s grateful to him every day for the opportunity to do what he loves in a supportive, creative environment.

But he can’t help but notice that Deaton gets some seriously weird customers at odd hours. Stiles tends to leave at a reasonable hour most nights because Deaton is a decent human being, but occasionally he’ll stay late. And that’s when he notices the customers slipping in with abnormally sharp nails and pointed ears. He swears that the woman who passed him on his way out Saturday night had snake eyes. But hey, to each their own. He had a late dinner to beg his toddler to eat.

In retrospect, he probably should have asked, if only to be updated on protocol.

For example, what does one do when a man with a gunshot wound stumbles in through the back door?

-

The guy is young, maybe a little older than Stiles, and undeniably attractive with pale blue eyes, full lips, and a nasty-looking hole in his gut. He wanders in through the back door in one of the private rooms, and Stiles drops the broom with a clatter.

“Oh shit.” Stiles says, because he’s closing up shop for the night and this was _not_ part of his training. And if he thought he was iffy with needles, he was worse with dark stains creeping into the fabric of a dark blue henley. “Deaton’s not in.”

Like a complete idiot.

“But for real though I can call you an ambulance. Because yeah, that...that looks like an ambulance kind of deal.” He goes to take his phone out of his pocket, and the guy grabs his wrist, not quite hard enough to hurt, but fast and jarring. Stiles swallows hard.

“Listen carefully. I cannot go to the hospital.”

Blue eyes flicker to gold and back as Stiles takes a deep breath and tries to ease him into the tattoo chair, cursing under his breath. He finally gets his wrist back and stands a pace away, fidgeting with the cuffs of his overshirt. “So, uh...I’m Stiles.”

The man smiles, tight with pain as he settles into the armrests like a king taking the throne. “Peter. Please tell me there’s someone else here. Anyone.”

“Nope. Just little old me. And you. And the hole in your stomach. Jesus.”

“Oh, good.”

“We have to take the bullet out, right? I mean I think we do?”

“Already done.”

“What? How?”

Peter holds up three blood-caked fingers, and Stiles has to catch himself on the counter. “Holy shit.”

“I need wolfsbane.”

“What.”

“To treat the wound. Take the flower, burn it to ashes, and press them into the hole. Are you new?”

“I started like a month ago! Give me a break, I’m a tattoo artist, not a back alley doctor. What the fuck is going on?”

“Oh, of course. My apologies. I’ll just give you a second to collect yourself while the poison _enters my heart and kills me_.” He yanks his shirt up so that Stiles can see the eerie black lines creeping up his torso. “Find the wolfsbane.”

“Where am I supposed to find _that_? I can’t just go rooting through Deaton’s shit.”

Peter levels him with a dry look, then realizes he's serious. His head thumps back against the seat. "I'm going to die."

"Hell, no. That is the opposite of what you're going to do. What does wolfsbane look like?"

“It’s a purple flower. Sort of...crowded. There are multiple blooms.” Peter blinks and shakes his head.

“Oh g-d, please don’t pass out.”

Peter frowns, about to open his mouth again, but Stiles jerks suddenly.

“Wait, shit! I know what you’re talking about!” He goes to the cabinet and withdraws a bottle of the vivid purple ink he made from the stinging flowers, showing it to Peter with a satisfied grin. The ink seems iridescent in the light, and his nerves _sing_ where the glass rests in his palm.

“That’s ink. I need a _flower_ , you moron.”

“Trust me. This will work.” Stiles knows it will. He has no idea _how_ he knows, but he has absolute confidence that it’s going to. He preps his work station quickly, sterilizing the equipment quickly and getting everything set up.

“You’re going to give me a tattoo? Really?” Peter laughs.

Undeterred, Stiles cleans the blood away from the wound with a wet wipe before prepping his instrument. He can see the design where it needs to be engraved, visualize the paths the ink will take to safeguard his heart. Beyond that, he sees the years ahead of him, growing dim under the weight of poison.

Stiles takes a deep breath, grasps at that blurred but hopeful future, and holds on tight.

He doesn't even hear the whirring of the machine.

Peter is still.

And Stiles begins to save his life.

-

Over an hour later, Stiles comes back to his senses to find purple flowers blossoming where a wound once was, bordered with familiar sigils and spirals. He looks up from his work and Peter's eyes open, his breath evening out as their gazes lock.

Stiles glances back down to find the ink disappearing into the skin. Like magic. He feels inexplicably sad.

"They never stay for my kind. Not without a little extra incentive." He looks over at the portable torch Stiles never really got the need for, and understanding settles low in his stomach. He doesn’t even flinch at what Peter’s insinuating.

He just knows that wasn’t it.

He drops the machine back on the tray, and Peter grabs his hand, lets his head fall back again. Stiles rests his forehead against Peter's hip and laughs.

And that's when his real training begins.

-

Peter Hale becomes an unshakeable presence in his life. He came back, he claims, because his sister asked him to, and he’s nothing if not _helpful_. Stiles thinks he’s full of shit, but it still makes him laugh.

He shows up at the shop all the time, just to bother Stiles. Deaton won’t even make him leave, he just smiles his vague little smile, shakes his head, and goes about his business. “Relax while you can,” He says, “but don’t forget to finish the translations I gave you.”

Aramaic is a pain in the ass.

And not even remotely as fascinating as Peter.

-

Cassie is a traitor.

Whenever she sees Peter, she lights up like she’s just been informed she can eat pudding whenever she wants and has blanket permission to draw on _all of the things_. Come to think of it, they’re both utter menaces, and Stiles has a serious problem.

Cassie _squeals_ with delight when Peter flashes fangs at her, and smushes his cheeks whenever he gives her half a chance. “Pubby pubby,” She chants, and kicks her feet. It’s kind of adorable and also kind of worrying.

His child _actually_ laughs in the face of danger.

Not that Peter could ever hurt her. He coos at Cassie like some kind of deranged pigeon, and actually _purrs_ when she gives him her cuddly little baby hugs. He denies it vehemently, but it is 100% definitely a purr.

Stiles was not born yesterday and Peter is actually a foul-tempered overgrown pussycat with abs. He’s pretty okay with it.

Sometimes Peter swings by the shop for lunch, or shows up to walk him home. Sometimes he takes them to the park and pushes Cassie on the swings and tries to push Stiles into the lake, getting dragged in for his trouble and pissing off all the ducks.

One day, a few months in, Deaton looks at him with the shop bell still jangling on its chain. He shakes his head and says, “If you’re looking for a priest for your handfasting, my going rate’s cheap.”

-

At times it seems really strange that Peter is always right around the corner. It’s sort of flattering in a vaguely uncomfortable way, and Cassie never seems to mind. Peter never really explains himself.

But everything begins to make much more sense when Stiles takes some trash out to the shop’s dumpster and catches Peter wrestling an honest to goodness unicorn. For real, the man is in a battle to the death with an iridescent pink children’s fantasy with a flowing mane and blood-stained, razor sharp teeth.

Stiles screams like a Hitchcock heroine, throws the garbage bag at its head, and maybe sets it on fire a little before grabbing Peter and hauling him back inside. Deaton is honestly surprised to find him panting and barricading the door when he comes to see what’s going on.

“Unicorns are real and my childhood is _ruined_ ,” Stiles pants. “I’m redecorating Cassie’s room.”

“Again?”

“Shut up. A unicorn tried to eat my boyfriend.”

“I’m your boyfriend?” Peter grins.

“A unicorn, you said?” Deaton asks.

“Everybody shut up.”

“I’m sorry, it’s just that that’s very unusual. Unicorns commonly go after virgins.”

“Childhood. _Ruined_.”

-

Pixies try to kidnap his child.

Honest to goodness pixies in tiny pixie clothes with nasty pixie teeth. Seriously, does everything he read about as a kid have to have a mouth full of razor blades? It’s like nothing is sacred and everything is trying to murder them all of a sudden.

It suddenly makes a lot more sense why Peter is _everywhere_ all the time.

Stiles takes a swing at a cackling pest with his old softball bat, and it makes a satisfying ‘ping’ when the little sucker goes flying into the distance, but then there are four more trying to take the bat away.

This lasts for about fifteen minutes before Cassie gets tired of the nasty creatures harassing her daddy and tugging on her little sundress, because she lets out a ghastly shriek, and suddenly the pixies are wailing and falling to the ground in comatose heaps of wings and technicolor hair.

Peter gets a Dustbuster from his car and shrugs his shoulder when Stiles looks at him in horror. “What? At least I’m not flushing them.”

-

Really, Stiles is pretty underwhelmed when he wakes up tied to a chair, his head aching where the blow landed, and opens his eyes to find a bunch of asshole human guys in jeans and flannel. It’s like the production department for Supernatural threw up all over their basement.

He should be more alarmed than he is, considering he’s in an improvised torture chamber, but at least it’s not a a kappa, and at least Cassie’s safe at home with his dad.

“So what are you guys?”

“‘Scuse me, kid?” One of them looks genuinely offended that Stiles has fucked up their intimidating vibe, but really it’s so much better than having all of his moisture drained from him. He can’t help but be a little bit relieved.

“In the past month, I’ve been attacked by some seriously creepy critters. Is your name Steve? I’m gonna call you Steve. Do you have kids, Steve?”

The guy looks at his companions like he doesn’t know how to answer that, but Stiles bulldozes on without him.

“If you do, I’d lay off that tooth fairy story, because those things are a lot more terrifying when they try to take teeth when they’re still _in_ your mouth.” He shudders. “And that’s not even the most terrifying thing that’s happened in the past few weeks. So, sorry if I’m not trembling or anything, but humans are a lot less terrifying than bloodsucking, tutu-wearing amateur dentists. With drills.”

Steve actually cringes, and Stiles relaxes just a little.

“I’m sorry to hear that, Mr. Stilinski. May I call you Stiles?” An older man, shorter than the others but no less intimidating, makes his way through the group. They all seem to part before him.

“You’re the one who’s got me tied to the chair, man. You can call me Princess Leia if you want to.”

“Charming.”

“So I’m told. Look, I’m not sure exactly what your angle is, but I’ve got a kid to worry about, and a sheriff dad who’s gonna come looking for me soon.”

“Of course. I’ll make this brief, then. I understand you’ve been seeing a mutual acquaintance of ours. One Peter Hale.”

“Well, we’re not Facebook official or anything, but you could say that.”

“Oh, good. I’d hate to grab the wrong young man. You see, not so long ago, Mr. Hale harmed someone I care about very much. A member of my family.”

“Ah, crap. Did he dump your daughter?”

The man’s nostrils flare.

“I mean, Peter seems like the kind of guy who dates around.”

“The dog you’re fucking scarred my daughter for life.” He growls.

And Stiles makes the dumbest decision of the night. “You know, there are plenty of other fish in the sea.”

A few seconds later, someone’s grandfather is beating him unconscious.

-

He wakes up slowly on the concrete floor, aching everywhere, with long fingers drawing patterns on his arm. “Jesus, I hurt _everywhere_.”

“Dad’s thorough like that.” A smoky and undeniably female voice answers him, and he tenses up so fast it sets his muscles screaming.

And then he’s _actually_ screaming because the face in front of him has a seriously nightmarish scar marring once beautiful features.

“Hey there, pretty boy.” The woman grins, and Stiles has a gut reaction that he’s definitely not proud of. It feels like his stomach is trying to crawl inside his lungs for safety, only his lungs are freaking out, too.

“Lady, I _really_ wish I could say the same thing.”

“We’ve got your boyfriend to thank for that, sweetheart.”

“Peter?”

“One and the same.” Her expression sours.

“Damn, how’d you piss him off that bad?”

She makes the same outraged expression her father did before schooling herself back into what was probably once a very tempting pout. “I made friends with his nephew. I guess he just didn’t like the idea of us being together. You’ve got to understand, kid. My father’s just worried about you. We _all_ are. You don’t know what those things are capable of.”

“Uh, I’ve got some idea.”

“It’s a reminder. I see it every day.”

“That was the point.” Peter’s low growl rumbles through the entire basement, as though rage is flooding the entire space. Stiles shivers in relief.

Before the woman can move, Peter is above her, pinning her down by the throat. “Hey, Katie. I thought you were done raping kids for murder and profit.”

She chokes in his grip, clawing at his hands with her nails digging deep. The gouges heal almost instantly, and Peter smiles.

Stiles closes his eyes and doesn’t flinch as hot blood splatters his face. He keeps them closed until Peter drags the body away and comes back to lay behind him, wrapping him up in his arms. He presses as close as he can, holds as tight as he’s able to without hurting Stiles more. “I’m so sorry.”

“What took you so long?”

“I’m so, so sorry.”

“It was probably at least a little bit my fault.”

“It’s never your fault.”

“Okay.”

They stay that way for a while longer, Peter draining off Stiles’ pain.

“What happened to Steve?” Stiles coughs.

“Your friend?” Peter grins against his shoulder. “He pointed me down this way. Guy’s pretty all right.”

-

The newspaper calls it a freak mountain lion attack, and for a while afterward, Stiles meows at Peter whenever he feels like being a morbid little bastard.

Peter can’t even elbow him.

It’s not fair at all.

-

Once they ascertain that all of the horrific childhood-destroying monster bullshit is because the hunters reactivated the local Nemeton before it completed its purification cycle. Or so Deaton says. The man is good enough to help Stiles out with a counter-ritual to put it back to sleep before cupids start ripping out people’s hearts and leaving them in their mouths.

He’s also nice enough to let Stiles know he should be healthy enough for sex without rupturing or pulling anything in about another week. And that’s even more satisfying to know than the sound a pixie makes when struck with an aluminum bat.

-

Stiles meets Derek and Laura while their uncle is balls deep inside him on the couch in the back of the shop, whispering how good he is in his ear. And Stiles is eye to eye with a horrified man in a leather jacket who looks like he just saw Santa Claus taking it from a reindeer.

“Are you planning this, or did you seriously not know people were coming?”

“What?” Peter asks, propping himself up on his forearms and accidentally on purpose _grinding_ against his prostate in a way that makes him whimper helplessly. “Oh. Hey, Derek.”

“Hi, Peter.” The teenager _squeaks_ , and Stiles leans his head back against the arm of the couch to get a proper look at him.

“Oh! Hey, so you’re Derek!”

“And Laura.” The woman behind him grins. “You’re Stiles, right?”

“Oh my g-d.” Derek whispers.

“Is he gonna be okay?” Stiles frowns, and then Peter fucking _thrusts_ again, and he makes a shocked keening noise before hitting him in the head with a throw pillow. “Not now, you asshole, the grown-ups are talking.”

“Fucking _hell_ , we’ve been waiting for _weeks_. Can’t you two come back _later_?”

“Oh my _g-d_.” Derek whispers again.

“We broke your nephew forever.”

“He’ll survive. Laura, go _away_.”

“We’re going, we’re going. You’re bringing him to family dinner, right?”

“Not if I eat him first.” Peter flashes his canines, and Laura rolls her eyes, grabbing her brother’s arm to drag him out.

“C’mon, Derek,” She says.

“Oh my g-d.” Derek whispers.

-

From what Stiles hears at dinner, Peter was once the certified badass of the family. By the time they hit dessert, the image has been thoroughly destroyed. Peter spends the last course bouncing Cassie on his knee and grinning whenever she does her weird little chipmunk giggle.

It’s impossible to take anyone seriously with a baby in a bear onesie complete with ears and paws making ‘voom voom’ sounds on their lap. Peter blows a raspberry on her tiny belly, and he’s done forever.

Everyone is having a perfectly normal conversation until Peter growls playfully at the baby, and she _snarls back at him_. Like full-on exorcist snarls. Stiles is out of the chair and on the phone with Melissa before you can say ‘gesundheit’, and she assures him that it’s entirely normal for babies to go through this sort of vocal phase.

Stiles remains unconvinced, but Peter seems suitably apologetic. And he kisses him a lot. Stiles feels like he can have a little faith.

Peter runs his fingers over the constellation inside of Stiles’ arm, and he feels pretty all right. This could work.

 

 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> So Besieged-Infection pointed out that this is nowhere near complete.  
> Guess who got suckered into another series.


End file.
